You Have Died of
by reathai
Summary: When Riley and Ben fly out to a writers' convention, things suddenly get a lot more serious than either of them could've imagined. Two days, eighty-four emails, and three bullets later, the two struggle to survive the antics of a treasure-obsessed psycho.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I'm not Disney. Sorry to disappoint.

_Notes: So, uh. I was watching NT the other day and then I came on here and I realised: almost everything has a very kiddish feel to it. Lots of comic relief. Whenever drama does come in, it shies away from reality and more towards emotional extremes. (i.e., Riley is a little girl and breaks down into tears at _everything_; Ben is a superhuman with little to no emotions other than straight-up heroic-ness; and Abigail is a super bitch or damsel in distress with no real use in the story.) I'm on break, so why shouldn't I tackle this in my spare time? I'm going to try my best to portray a realistic NT adventure. Keep in mind that this is little more than a draft that's been read through two or three times, so it's subject to edits and updates and whatever. If that occurs, I'll post a note somewhere saying so, just so people hopefully aren't confused. And no, I'm not taking a break from Ad Hoc. I'm just on a NT kick right now, and I'm kind of angry at Nintendo for pandering to the masses and making Link right-handed. Boo._

_I digress. Regarding this, I want to know what you think. I'm working on realism here, so keep that in mind. With sarcasm central to some of the dialogue, I'll try my best to capture Riley's personality. Help me out here and offer some feedback. Bleh. I guess that's it. Thanks for reading. Wish me luck? _

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* * *

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"I'm supposed to attend a convention in Portland. Next week." A very brief pause follows, during which I struggle to form coherent words that don't come across as too blatantly whiny. When I hear him gathering breath, I let it out in a rush: "BenIwantyoutocomewithme."

To be perfectly honest, I never even considered asking him until those stupid emails started flooding my inbox. My publisher likes using blogs to promote upcoming releases, so he included a little blurb about my appearance at next week's convention, mentioning some extraneous details like my involvement in certain treasure-related exploits. It first appeared maybe five or six weeks ago, and with it came the irritating messages about gold mines and the Oregon Trail and lost little girls. It's kind of creepy, actually. But the words "gold" and "lost mine" and "mystery" immediately put me in mind of my ridiculous treasure-hunting friend, and so, like a true procrastinator, I finally managed to pick up the phone fifteen minutes ago and dial his number.

Now, he coughs on the other end of the line. I don't realize it immediately, but I'm holding my breath and clutching the phone ridiculously for no apparent reason, aside from the nasty little _I'm-asking-my-best-friend-to-spontaneously-fly-across-the-country-with-me-when-his-first-child-is-due-in-less-than-two-months_ issue. Christ, I shouldn't be worried about Ben rejecting my offer, but more caught up with Abigail's potential reaction. Her nasty temper is only exacerbated by the parasite she's harboring. That same parasite is also the main reason why she has consistently won Bitch of the Month for the past seven months, although she didn't really need any help in the first place. Mean Declaration Lady always kind of had it in the bag.

Ben coughs again, summoning me back to the gravity of the present. "Riley," he begins haltingly. "You know I'd love to, and that I'd normally agree in a heartbeat-"

"It's okay. I understand. Never mind. I'm sorry." I feel like smacking myself on the forehead. It was dumb to ask. He has more important things to do than accompanying me to a convention. This has very obviously been showcased by all the actions that have earned Bitch of the Month her winning streak: Abigail has been more than reluctant to pass on my messages to Ben. She's pregnant and I understand her anxiety when it comes to possible adventures, but all I wanted then was to hang out and watch some TV and eat some junk food and complain. Those are four of my top five favorite pastimes right there. But no, who would've guessed that Abigail, of all people, would be an obsessive mother? As this runs through my mind for the millionth time, I'm swallowing my hope. Maybe going over to the Gates' for dinner will be the extent of friend-related activities like that, after the kid is born. Maybe I should make an effort and get out of this apartment and be social. Maybe-

I can hear something on the other line; my thoughts stop in an instant, hovering, waiting for something more to go on: "No, no. Well. You know I'll have to talk to Abby, but I might be able to work something out. We haven't done anything together in a long time, and it's only for a weekend, isn't it? And in a major city. Maybe we can do something-"

"Anything, man, as long as it doesn't involve a lecture of any sort," I grin into the phone.

His words convey an obvious smile in return. "Ah, sure, Riley. Let me talk to her and get back to you?"

"Sure." I let the phone go dead and allow myself to slide gracelessly down the wall, my head in my hands. Goddamn contract. I haven't been out of the house in weeks, and with the convention drawing near, I need a little motivation. I need a lot of motivation. To be honest, I need Ben. I need him to straighten me out and knock some sense into me again, because everything right now feels like one continuous nightmare, and I don't know how to make it stop. The manuscript is finished, but I can't break out of this awful months-long habit of sitting by myself and doing _nothing_. Abigail will be fine for a week. On the other hand, if I don't talk to someone soon, I'll explode, and I don't think anyone would relish the idea of scraping gooey bits of Riley off the ceiling and walls. It would totally crash the resale value. But things are looking up. All Ben has to do is call me back and say yes and all will be well and it will be wonderful, even if it does rain the entire time we're at that stupid convention. At least we'll get a nice hotel room and room service.

* * *

"Jesus, Riley, you look like crap."

I offer a lame glare in response, my mouth full of some useless brochure, and my hands too preoccupied with my carry-on to do much else. Instead, I make a mental note to give him my best offensive gesture at the most inappropriate time. Ben just shakes his head in what seems to be surprise.

"What have you been _up_ to?"

"Oh, I don't know. I thought I told you about my meadow-frolicking and daisy-picking exploits," I snap back at him, a little more harshly than intended, after dropping my shoulder bag to the floor. He looks taken aback, but doesn't immediately reply, allowing time for my expression to soften into one of sheepishness. Not looking at him, I scuff the side of my shoe against the front of my bag. "Thanks for coming with me, Ben. I really do appreciate it."

He nods awkwardly in response, but that intense, almost accusatory look in his eyes only intensifies. Now I'm in for it. I knew I should've gotten my hair cut. "Riley." Fixing me with that stupid scrutinizing scowl of his, he continues flatly, "If you needed help, you know you could've called-"

"I don't need help. I've been busy. You know I've been busy, and I know you've been busy. We just weren't busy together. Is that a crime now?"

"It is when you look like _that_," he mutters snidely. "When's the last time you cut your hair?"

"Right after I got rid of my dreads and quit my reggae band for an emo-punk collab." I watch him coolly, noting the slightly mussed hair and meager beginnings of a five o'clock shadow that I interpret as the product of stress. I can't blame him. I called him up last week, knowing full well how busy he's been prepping and painting and shopping and arguing over names. Abigail's due date is looming on the horizon like a point source with significant interference patterns. While the Gates and their soon-to-be-nuclear family are illuminated by the bright sections, I feel left in the dark despite what I know to be excitement over the kid's birth. I am going to be an uncle. That's cool, right? I get to spoil the kid rotten once it's old enough to learn clever things from clever Riley. Maybe I'll teach it so well, it'll be able to hack the CIA by its eighth birthday. I'd consider that a success.

Ben coughs, interrupting my thought process and subsequently crashing the train. His eyebrow is raised questioningly, unimpressed. "Nice, Riley. But seriously, why didn't you call?"

"Hey look, they're calling our flight," I evade clumsily, but he catches on and narrows his eyes, his hand reaching out to grasp my shoulder.

"Riley-"

With a curt shake of my head, I shove past his hand with my bag slung awkwardly over a shoulder. "You know, there's this new thing that's all the rage these days; I think you might be interested. It's this thing called privacy, and if you buy it, it comes with a free order of tact."

Ooh, he has his teeth bared now, and he isn't following me. I turn around impatiently, stare at him for a split second, then decide abruptly that I'm not up for an argument, especially not a public one. I'm busy walking away towards the terminal, but Ben's just standing there, calling my name angrily even though I refuse to turn around. He realizes this only after I've disappeared through the doorway; five seconds later, he's striding beside me, breathing somewhat harshly, muttering colorful things under his breath about how self-centered and stubborn I can be at times, and what the hell was I thinking doing whatever I've been doing for the past who-knows-how-long. I very doggedly ignore him until we've found our seats and I've shoved my carry-on up onto the rack, and given Ben that obscene gesture I promised. When I turn around to sit down, he's watching me incredulously.

"I am not going to just let this go," he hisses as a larger man with glasses and a shiny briefcase takes a seat beside us. "This isn't the end of this discussion. I want answers. You look like shit."

"Thanks Ben. You always know how to raise my self-esteem."

"RILEY. This isn't a joke!" He actually looks somewhat dangerous right now, reminding me of our run-ins with Ian and how Ben always got that offended, indignant, _ready _look on his face, like he was ready to jump in front of all of us and sacrifice himself in a red-white-and-blue blaze of glory. I shake my head again, but Ben thinks it's directed at him, and starts hissing and spitting all over again like a bloody cat. An eye-roll isn't uncalled-for, but it kind of is a little inappropriate, given the potential for a lecture here. He should be proud of the restraint I'm showing. I'm even willing to share, if it would shut him up for a little while. Instead: "-ask me to come along, and you're acting like this, this… It's completely opposite your normal personality, so why shouldn't I be concerned? We haven't heard from you in months, and when you crop up asking for-"

As calmly as I can manage, I take out my laptop and turn it on and plug in a set of headphones, but don't put them in yet. "Ben." He stops mid-sentence, still breathing heavily in apparent anger, eyes wide and dilated. I want to say, _If you want to go home, get off the damn plane_. It comes out as: "We've both been busy. It happens. Can we just enjoy this trip? Or at the very least, refrain from murdering each other? There's a reason why I didn't ask Abigail to come."

He crosses his arms, causing the fabric of his windbreaker to crinkle loudly. The man sitting at the end of our row shoots us a disapproving look, and I glare right back until he loses interest and turns away. Ben has that annoying air about him that suggests he isn't going to speak to me until I tell him exactly how I've been busy and why I haven't called, but that could very easily turn into an argument if I repeated his questions. We're both to blame. He's just making it into a bigger deal than it is in typical Ben-fashion. Not that I really resent that at the moment, since I was the one to call him up and request his company. I still feel somewhat stupid over it: me, a grown man, asking my best friend to fly to a convention. It makes me sound like I can't handle the situation on my own – and while I am claustrophobic, I like to think that I can function without major mishaps. I usually can. It's just been hard recently.

This is probably the first time in about four months or so that I've actually spoken to my best friend in person, and, as Ben pointed out, it shows. My voice is raspy, my hair longer than usual, my eyes framed by dark circles – I know. I'm trying to pull myself together. An adventure with an old friend is the way to do it. But with all the busying around, it's not exactly easy to coordinate things. I last saw Abigail maybe two months ago, when I had to take her to a doctor appointment because Ben had an emergency trip somewhere, and she didn't feel safe driving. She'd told me to drop by for dinner later that night, but I'd had another deadline to meet and to be honest, I didn't feel up to that much social interaction. It also felt like she was trying to compensate for consistently redirecting my calls. With that as the lone exception, I've spent the past five months in almost total isolation, holed up in my apartment and living off take-away and squinting for hours on end at the dim light of a laptop screen.

Obviously, this wouldn't be a problem if the squinting and the laptop screen involved my usual work with exciting things like security systems and coding. My activities also wouldn't be such a mystery to Ben if I didn't find them embarrassing. After the Templar book, I moved into historical fiction. Ben likes to spew random facts, but I always end up wondering how those people felt and what they said and how they lived, so I cater to that. And, knowing how disinterested Ben was in my first book, I didn't think it important to let him in on my recent activities, until maybe now. I haven't told Abigail either. I haven't really told anyone, even though Ben and I are currently headed for a writers' convention in Portland, where I am a featured speaker for a workshop. Man, will he be in for a surprise. Man, will it suck explaining said surprise. Maybe I should have briefed him during that initial phone call. Maybe he should have asked.

Or, you know, I can just wing it when we get there in true Riley-fashion. It's a talent. But first, we'll have to survive the plane ride, and the only way I know of involves a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and a nice long nap with my favorite playlist. With my laptop's screen in plain view while I open up iTunes, I unwittingly allow Ben a glimpse into my mail client, where his eyes are instantly drawn to "ATTN: RILEY POOLE INFO RE: LOST GOLD MINE." I don't realize he's seen it until he gestures roughly at the screen, smudging it with his finger, and seemingly abandoning the whole shunning idea.

"What's that?"

"Noth-"

"Does that involve the one in eastern Oregon along the Oregon Trail? Something to do with a bucket?"

I turn to look at him, blinking in disbelief. "Why do you _know_ that? Why? There is no legitimate reason for you to know things like that. It's disgusting. Stop it."

Ben snorts. "Oh, please. Open it up; I want to see it. It looks interesting. We should visit it and pick up a few rocks. They'd look great in the nursery."

"Yeah, Ben. Every newborn needs a few Oregonian _rocks_. What'll they cost? Two oxen? Will I die of dysentery? I don't think anyone eats bear meat anymore." I can't tell if he's gotten the reference or not, but his arms are crossed again, and the guy next to us sighs in exasperation. We very dutifully ignore him because we're good like that and Ben's shifted into treasure-hunting mode anyway, albeit with conflict continually flashing over his features. Admittedly, I'm kind of excited at his change of mood, since I know something interesting will follow; I can already feel the months of dormancy beginning to melt away. It's beyond fantastic. He leans in closer for a better view of the screen, and, obliging, I maximize the first of the creepy emails. "I got them after uh, a blog entry. This guy is crazy persistent about some mine."

After a few solid minutes of perusal, Ben glances between me and the screen. "I can't really…. You and I both know an expedition out there is kind of out of the question," he says quietly, almost painfully. "I mean, I would love to have a look, but I don't think Abigail would agree it's the best course of action. She's due soon, and we have to be home for that."

Slight warmth fills me at the "we," but it isn't enough to make up for the overall tone of what he's saying. I just grin lopsidedly and shut screen after starting the playlist. "You're the one who wanted to see it. Like we aren't rich enough," I remark with a leer.

Ben rolls his eyes, settling back into the seat. "I can't help it if- Why aren't you using an iPod? This could've been easily avoided." Ooh, now he's suspicious. I expected this, I think. Trust the cryptographer in him to find some deeper meaning to a simple creepy email.

I very carefully tuck my laptop beside me, hand hovering near the switch on my headphones. "Because, dear Ben, my iPod isn't capable of email updates, and I'm waiting for something important."

He grins. "I'm surprised you don't have an iPhone, or one of those annoying social networking things."

"I like having a battery, and, given our history together, an iPhone wouldn't last a minute in your company. You're not very careful in choosing your adventures."

"'Like we aren't rich enough.'"

Flipping the switch, I shut my eyes and smile complacently. "Yes, Ben, you caught me. I totally planned that entire thing, just for the opportunity to bring up _Oregon Trail_." Unable to hear his response, I avoid surprise and disappointment, depending on his reaction. I'm like Schrödinger's cat, minus the poison. It's kind of cool, entertaining two different emotions in complete suspension. When I crack open an eye three and a half songs later, I see that Ben has followed my lead and resorted to sleeping as well. I can't hide a smile, even with briefcase-guy scowling at me. I totally absolutely missed this. Things are finally getting back on track. Life is great.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I'm not Disney. Sorry to disappoint.

_Notes: First, I apologise for taking so long to update. This has been sitting around half-finished for the longest time, and I only recently found the motivation to finish it (with no small thanks to Warren De for the poignant reminder). Second, I am overwhelmed by the amount of support this has received, and for that, I thank you. All of your feedback is very much appreciated, especially during the writing process since, ideally, I aim for believable, readable, and enjoyable pieces. They are, after all, written for you because you are awesome. __Sappiness aside, to Cocoa987 and anyone else wondering: there will indeed be an adventure, of sorts. I promise :) _

_Thanks again to everyone! And please, if something is irking you, feel free to drop a line!_

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* * *

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Ben jostles my shoulder roughly, hissing, "We're here. Get out, but don't sign that paper."

"Wha?" Blinking blearily, I lurch forward slightly as the cab comes to a squeaky halt by the hotel's covered entrance. I don't remember falling asleep, but it's so warm in here that I don't doubt what happened. Dry heat can put me to sleep in a matter of minutes. On the other hand, Ben looks more awake than ever as he lays a hand on my shoulder in something like warning, as if I need to be warned. Have I regressed to being an unsupervised teenager in a chatroom? All the man wants is an _autograph_. There's nothing life-threatening in that, even if he just-so-happened to have a picture of Ben, Abby, and myself taped to his visor. "What is your _problem_? You're acting like he's the freaking Cabbie Killer from CSI!"

He just rolls his eyes as he gets out of the car, moving around to get the bags out of the trunk. I follow after him, but only after taking the proffered pen, bar napkin, and a printer-paper copy of my novel pulled from beneath the front passenger seat, and scribbling my name and a short note inside the jacket cover. The cabbie recognized us as soon as we flagged him down, which for some reason set off an alarm in Ben's mind because he outright refused to get in the damn taxi. It took a good ten minutes of arguing in the relentless mist – just long enough for the water to seep through my hood and into my hair, matting and plastering it uncomfortably to my forehead – before Ben finally swallowed his ridiculous suspicions and climbed inside the warm, smoky interior. I mean, for Christ's sake, the cabbie has a horrid stutter. How dangerous can he possibly be? He probably spent his entire childhood in social isolation, playing video games or reading fantasy novels in some dark, quiet corner.

That doesn't sound familiar at all.

I snatch two of my bags out of the trunk and carefully arrange them on the luggage rack that some tip-grubbing bellhop has brought out to us. At the sound of another door slamming, I glance up to find the cabbie circling around to where I'm standing and fumbling with my messenger bag, the binder-clipped pages of my latest novel clutched firmly in his hand. His flannel shirt, pulled loosely over thin shoulders, bags around his lanky arm as he extends a hand to me.

"Th-th-th-thanks-thanks, m-man. 'Ppre-pre-ciate it-it."

"Oh, uh, sure," I reply, not without a little uncertainly. I'm not Ben Gates; I'm not used to people asking for autographs, especially for a first novel that hasn't even hit the proverbial shelves yet. Something must have leaked online for him to have a copy already… and while that's somewhat strange and maybe even creepy, it still doesn't hold a candle to the whole email situation thing. Besides, he's my biggest fan. Of course I have a soft spot for this stuttering, flannel-wearing cabbie driver. Maybe he even moonlights as like, a bartender or something, like Sergeant O'Leary. Shrugging awkwardly, I smile blankly at the man, "Thanks, uh, for the ride," before jamming a hand into my pocket for a crumpled wad of cash.

Ben appears from out of nowhere with a mean look on his face, the one that cinches his brows together and makes him pucker his lips like a sad monkey. "I got it, Riley," he says flatly, and proceeds to shove two neatly pressed twenties into the cabbie's waiting hand. The man nods blankly, but Ben steers me towards the hotel entrance as soon as the cabbie opens his mouth again. We take about ten steps away from the curb; halfway to the doors, he leans down and mumbles, "You signed it, didn't you?"

"No. I stared at it and laser-inscribed my name instead. Signing things with your hands is so last week." Rolling my eyes, I hold open the heavy door for the bellhop. Beyond the bottle-necked entrance blocked by the front desk, I can see that the hotel opens into a spacious lounge with plenty of polyester seats, as well as what looks like a coffee station in the back corner. The stairs are somewhere to the right, across from the elevators, according to a handy placard set into the wall. Beside me, Ben shakes his head with irritation.

"Riley."

"Ben," I snap back at him. "Look, I get that you've got some sort of problem with me-"

"_Problem_?" Ben stares incredulously, his eyes practically bugging out of his head in a gross exaggeration. "He practically _stalked_ us."

"Oh, please. He's not a crazy ex-girlfriend," I retort rudely as I slap my ID onto the counter and accept the keycard the woman offers in return. I mutter a quick thank-you to her before storming through the turnstiles and towards the elevators, both Ben and the luggage rack following lopsidedly in my wake. "It was only a clipping from that little thing called _The New York Times_. As far as I'm concerned, he was a fan and that's okay. I mean, you have fans. Everybody and their mother know who Ben Gates is." With a soft grunt, I smash a fist into the elevator button until it finally glows white. Had I made a mistake by inviting him? Because he is really starting to feel like a grumpy bag of bricks tied a little too tightly to my ankle.

Ben doesn't say a word until I've thrown open the suite door, the bellhop has left, and I've begun unpacking my computer. That lapse in confrontation gave me about five and a half minutes to think of a more complex defense, but I've only come to the conclusion that I am displacing and that I have to tell him the truth, beginning with why we're in bloody Portland, of all places. That shouldn't be too much of a hassle. The room is nice, after all, so even if Ben decides to bail on me, I'll be able to enjoy free pay-per-view and decent room service in a suite that smells like licorice and one of those Tide To-Go pens. As I claim the bed nearest to the window, I immediately snatch the phone off the hook, buying myself a few more precious minutes of peace before the drama begins. But with the pizza on the way here, and the phone back in its cradle, I have no choice but to turn around and face that angry mask Ben has fixed to his unshaven face.

"Talk about looking like crap," I mutter as disarmingly as I can. "You need a shave. You can have dibs on the shower, if you-"

"Riley."

Desperately, I talk right over him. "No, really, you can have the shower. I'll just finish-"

"_Riley_."

_Fat lot of good that did_. "Okay, fine, you win. You're absolutely right: the geeky sidekick isn't allowed to have fans." I purposefully screw up the expression on my face, wriggling my fingers at the same time. "I get that it makes you uncomfortable, but-"

"RILEY. Jesus, will you stop it? Just cut the crap," Ben practically shouts. "What the hell happened to you, man? At least I have the excuse of fatherhood – you, I just… What happened to you?"

The look in his eyes almost manages to scare me into submission, but a spark of rebellion stubbornly remains. He's standing opposite me, at the edge of my bed, the bulk of his tall figure framed by the wide mirror behind him, his arms dangling pointlessly by his sides. In the glass, I can see my pitiful reflection: shaggy hair, even messier because of the rain; red-rimmed eyes that barely look alive, and in serious need of some Visine; rumpled clothes with more wrinkles than the real Dorian Gray. I am a complete mess. I look so worn out that I almost blend right into the nondescript tan wallpaper behind me. And the worst part is that I don't even know where to start, because I don't know when _this_ started. Everything just kind of developed gradually, unstoppably, until one night I woke up, sprawled over a dead laptop and piles of papers, confused and terrified. _Why didn't you call?_ He'd asked that in the terminal, before the flight. Nine hours later, cold, damp, and hungry, with far too much insight into briefcase-guy's mismatched socks – I'm still at a loss for words. The idea had crossed my mind so many times over the past few months, and yet I never bothered to find the phone and pursue him. Shouldn't he have been pursuing me, if he's so worried now? What does that say about his treasure-hunting skills? Where's all that blind determination and those morals of steel?

Instead of feeling the subtle rise of any sort of defense, I just feel put-out and resigned, and the slightest bit annoyed. This is my best friend. One of my only good, close friends. And I understand that everyone is busy, and I understand that I am partly to blame, but would it have killed him to check? Everyone knows I thrive on attention…. A sudden chilling blast of insignificance hits me, stopping my lungs; I almost gag in surprise. Ben notices this and creeps a little closer, eventually settling down with a series of creaks and pops onto his own bed, still facing me with this pained look.

"What happened to you, Riley?"

Sighing heavily, I just shrug. I want desperately to come up with a good sarcastic response, but my mind is utterly blank aside from the constant white noise of half-remembered mental notes. "Nothing. I've just had a rough few months."

"Don't make me jump to conclusions," he warns as soon as it becomes evident I'm unwilling to divulge more. "Damn it Riley, but don't make me believe the worst-"

"And what is the worst, Ben?" I blink at him almost blankly. "What's the worst you can think of? God, but don't pretend like I lead some fast-paced and straight-out-of-a-crappy-spy-novel double life. I'm a hacker for Christ's sake. This isn't _Leverage_. This is real life."

At that, he simply rolls his eyes and breathes out angrily, filling the space between us with palpable frustration. "Oh no, of course you don't. Being professional treasure-hunters isn't anything out of the ordinary."

My intense molestation of the heavy duvet is interrupted by a terrible desire to tell him that he's not allowed to talk like that in my presence, since I am the only one of our trio with the gift of gab. However, I smartly realize that that isn't really an option, especially with Ben on the verge of a major eruption; his face has turned a blotchy red, and he looks more like an angry monkey than ever with those expressive eyebrows of his. If he's lucky, his kid will look like Abigail.

"Well?" He's probing me now, expecting some fiery comeback. But I'm suddenly so tired that nothing of the sort will be forthcoming, and if he really wants to hear something inflammatory, he can rant at the mirror for a few hours while I eat my pizza and take a nap. "Riley, this isn't like you and I don't like-"

"You you you you you! It's all about you! You don't like my attitude, you don't like the cabbie, you don't like- you don't like…!" Yes, he did ask about me before. Yes, I'm being childish. But I'm having trouble focusing on my deflecting. When Ben leans in close, trying to lay a supportive hand on my shoulder, I acknowledge just how obviously I'm displaying my resentment of our communication breakdown. The self-directed irritation hits me hard. "Okay. Fine. You want to know why I'm so frazzled and why we're in Portland? I got into historical fiction and churned out this ridiculous thing on the Lewis and Clark Expedition in a matter of months, and now my agent's organized a speaking role here at the writer's convention because the release date is like, next month."

I can see the gears turning in his head, his lower jaw hanging open stupidly and then opening a little in what may be a reply. But he shuts his mouth. Then he blinks, almost confused, but recovers quickly with a bright half-grin. Do I finally detect a little guilt? And is that a spark of satisfaction in my own chest? "You started writing again?"

"Yeah, but this time it's all fiction. Historical fiction, actually. I blame the random article feature on Wikipedia and Stumble. I wonder if I should cite those in my bibliography?"

His grin widens considerably, predictably. I mentioned something about history, so of course his face lights up like the Christmas tree at 30 Rock. I've missed his enthusiasm and its infectious nature – _that_ is why I invited him on this business trip, and not simply because such a large concentration of hipsters makes my skin crawl. Something has been off-kilter these past few months, these fevered weeks of drafting and revising and researching and writing. I have been living off of groceries delivered via an online system where, despite having the entire store's inventory at my fingertips, I only ever ordered beefaroni and mandarin oranges and other unexciting, utterly unhealthy, strangely juxtaposed foodstuffs. And even though the novel will only be available electronically, the publication process took a lot out of me – is still taking a lot out of me, if the conference is anywhere near as terrible as I anticipate. Just moving around so much in a day, seeing so many people and doing so many things – I want more than anything to go to sleep again, eat some cold pizza in the morning, and settle down somewhere quiet to a nice coding commission. Where has my life gone?

Across from me, Ben coughs softly, his hands now on his knees. "Well. I think- I'm glad you were doing something productive, I think." Ah, here comes the mutual, unspoken acknowledgement of a cease-fire. Can't say I didn't expect or hope for this. "Go get a shower. I'll save you some food."

"No way. I ordered that pizza and I want the satisfying job of tearing that first delicious piece from the pie," I snort at him. "Nah, I've got to go through all these emails. My agent said something about the inefficiency of my inbox filters. As if anything of mine could be inefficient." He grins again, that same wonderful brightness countering the effect of his stubble. He's even progressed to semi-unpacking in the way that all travelers lay out their most personal belongings on the hotel nightstand, followed by the meticulous withdrawal of toiletries from all those handy inner pockets. And the moment would've stayed like that – glossed in a bland contentment, with a comfortable, companionable silence – if it weren't for the sudden ping of my email alert and my melodramatic gasp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I'm not Disney. Sorry to disappoint.

_Notes: So, my life is kind of intense right now. However, I am fairly confident that this will see more frequent updates now that the obligatory introductions have been made. Thanks again for reading, and please remember to drop a line._

* * *

"You did a good job in there," Ben says as soon as I squeeze through the heavy curtains, clutching my notes and half-empty water bottle, my eyes frantically trying to find him in the backstage darkness. The applause quiets abruptly as the curtains fall back into place behind me; somewhere out there, the presenter is introducing someone else to the group. "Abby has a Kindle. We'll be downloading it as soon as it's available."

"Yeah, yeah, let's just get out of here," I mumble, flustered, choking the life out of the bottle on my way out of the cluttered prep area. Sure, the lecture had gone well enough – I mean, as well as an hour-long, stutter-filled talk about Lewis and Clark can go, so I should be relieved. Except I'm not, because some asshole grad student tried his best to tear holes into my research methods during the Q and A. Cursing, I kick aside a crate of microphones in my haste to find the exit, that distant rectangle with those mocking red letters. "God, I'm glad that's over with-"

Ben scoffs as he leans against the door, effectively blocking my escape route. "Please, Riley. You love attention."

Sighing exasperatedly, I shove past him and into the gloriously cool and wet afternoon into the not-so-gloriously grungy back alley of the auditorium. There's a tree and a small unkempt garden nearby full of cigarette butts and moss; automatically my brain recognizes the ten-foot boundary that's advertised on every single door in the city with those fancy little stickers. Nice idea. Fails in practice like most stuff. "I don't love being told that I'm not qualified. And the way that guy just kept talking to me like I'm- like I'm a complete moron because I don't have a degree in-in-"

"Riley," he interrupts with that unamused monkey-look of his. I turn to face him, still huffing and puffing, but he just shakes his head and ducks slightly, motioning off towards the street and the inevitably nearby coffee shop. "C'mon. Stop strangling the bottle."

I want to punch him. But I don't. I just follow him, fuming and desperate and angry. The alleyway is narrow, closed in on one side by mossy brick and on the other by a chain-link fence with a bulletin board full of posters for underground shows. By the time we reach the street and the obligatory cluster of smoking hipsters, our destination looms into view as a Starbucks on the far corner. Trust Ben to pick the one place where I could get accosted by conference-goers. We can't just hop a bus into the arts district a mile away, no – we've got to sit across from the goddamn conference in what I'm sure will be a window- or some other highly visible seat. And after that debacle, I want to sit in a dark room and sleep and pretend I'm not the useless techie, the persona that I've cultivated so carefully for years.

He's holding open the door for me, still looking unimpressed and even a touch annoyed. "Look, I don't care what that guy said to you, okay? The lecture was good. It was great. You did a great job."

Shaking my head, I wave dismissively at the overly-friendly barista and take a seat at a corner table, as far away from the usual crowd as possible. Ben disappears briefly with his lips pursed in disapproval at my attitude, but returns shortly bearing gifts. I accept the cup and stir the contents warily, which is an apparently threatening action since Ben fidgets, shifts his own cup all around the table in front of him, and exhales loudly four times, all the while giving me the evil eye.

By the fifth sigh, he breaks down and snaps, "Riley, seriously? You're really going to let that one guy ruin your conference experience?"

"Well, I do always enjoy the constant realisation of how much I suck."

"_Riley_."

"What?" I slide back in my chair, on the defensive. Some guy at the next table, who looks remarkably like mismatched-sock guy from the plane, keeps shooting me alternating looks of irritation and interest and it's really throwing me off. "I didn't want to come here in the first place, and then my publisher said it'd be good to-to… I don't know. Tell people why I wrote what I did. Connect with them, or some shit like that. I don't know. All that publicity crap that you and Abigail do all the time for whatever reason. But he could never get me to go to any of those lame charity party-things, and so I'm here, and that guy-"

"Will you just listen to me for a minute? Forget what the guy said – it's not important and it isn't true."

"I can't." He knows I'm pissed. I know it too, but I can't get a grip on this because that damn grad student's words echo in my head like an incessant bell. His accusations of disreputable sources both confirm my suspicions and take a major bite out of the mild pride I kind of hold for that book. I enjoyed writing it, associated stress aside. I liked what I was doing, and the departure from the conspiracy theories for the interpretation of a real event. And maybe this is just the silly transition phase where I have to face the new set of critics and reestablish myself as a coherent public speaker, but I can't deny the intense feeling of incompetence. It doesn't even make sense and yet, I can't bring myself to challenge it. Ben stares at me expectantly, his coffee untouched while I gulp down half of mine just to break the awkward, pregnant silence.

"Actually," I start abruptly. "Actually, yeah. Of course I can. Let's forget that even happened, because this time Friday, I will be back home with my own coffee pot and my DS and everything will be perfectly fine, like this never even happened."

He just snorts. "You sound like a ServPro commercial."

Socks-doppelganger averts his eyes when I openly glare at him. I blink, but my gaze seems fixed on the glowing apple on the back of his computer until I can see the negative image following the miniscule movement of my eyes. "Yeah." Ben waits a little too obviously with the way he's leaning forward and tapping the lid of his cup. "It's kind of disconcerting, isn't it, how applicable their slogan is?"

Another heavy sigh. "Riley, this is getting ridiculous. You aren't yourself."

For some reason, those words of his float around and rearrange themselves until I can barely remember what the meaning is or was or supposed to be. I blink again, until I can comfortably look across the table with a hard-edged challenge in my voice, unmistakably directed at the man sitting across from me, the newspaper tucked easily beneath a jacketed arm beside a steaming cup grasped loosely by a nervously tapping hand. Why is he so goddamn nonchalant all the time? "Should I be? I just got threatened. In a bloody email. That's not exactly an ordinary thing for me."

"Then I'd take that to be a good thing." He inclines his head towards the street, his shoulders suddenly stiff. "We're only here for a few more days. And I know it sounds stupid, but as long as we travel together, you'll be fine."

"This isn't a fifth-grade field trip, Ben."

His eyes narrow, lips puckering slightly like I've somehow grievously wronged him, or at the very least attempted to cheat him in some way. "I'm not trying to chaperone you-"

"I didn't bring you here to babysit-"

"Then why _am_ I here, Riley?" he explodes suddenly, not loud enough to silence the place, but enough to further pique the interest of the wannabe-poet with the newest MacBook and those stupid journalist glasses that I see on every other face in this goddamned city. He won't stop staring and I'm getting spectacularly fed-up with the unwarranted attention. But across from me, Ben continues with his furious diatribe, ranting about how ridiculous I've been and how he's out here of his own accord and some other shit that I can't concentrate on because of the sudden blaring of a fire truck outside. I instantly think of Croesus. Isn't there enough rain in Portland to substitute Apollo? A hand curled into the front of my jacket jerks me back to reality.

"Jesus, but can't you even do me the courtesy of paying attention for five minutes!"

For a split second, I don't say anything, and I think that maybe, if I keep not saying anything, he might toss me out of my chair and start beating me to a pulp in the narrow aisle between our section of chairs and the bar stools. I almost want him to. I want him to. I don't know why; I just think that maybe I'd feel a lot better if he landed a punch and set me straight. But he won't. The split second passes and here we are again, I on my side of the table, Ben leaning across his, hands braced on either edge, eyes set in a fury, wide, angry, bewildered maybe. I don't know how to speak. He slams a palm down between us and finally turns away. His newspaper lies askew, forgotten on the floor beneath his chair.

"C'mon. We're going."

"No." I shake my head and shift awkwardly in the chair, away from his grasping fingers. "No, I don't- I'm going for a walk."

"Riley," he nearly shouts in disbelief, "you can't be serious! You just received- You yourself just said-"

Getting to my feet, I just shake my head again. "I'll be fine. I just- I need some air and I'll take the bus back to the hotel." This decision runs completely contrary to my previous fears regarding the emails and the threats. Completely opposite. But he's suddenly suffocating with his overbearing presence, in the absolute worst way. Ben has always had the protective older brother persona about him, but right now, it's practically flooding out of his reddening ears with its intensity. That persona is more than welcome whenever we're trapped in a life-or-death situation with guns and greedy men and a plan all of Ben's making. Even now I can feel the phantom of adrenaline creeping through my veins, lending me strength now as I stand before him on the busy corner, in full view of the bookstore across the street and the Starbucks we've just fled. He must have left his cup at the table because his hands are empty.

"I'm a big boy, Ben. I can find my way back without your expertise."

Ben just rolls his eyes. "Fine. If that's how you want to play it, fine. I'll see you later." And then he stalks off and around the corner into the rain-washed crowd. The crown of his head bobs away, down the hill, towering above the few passersby that outpace him on his way to the bus stop at the next intersection. Breathing a sigh of relief, I jam my hands into my pockets and wheel about to face the opposite direction, heading east to the absence of office buildings, to the river. It will be light for a few hours yet, after all, and by Ben's mood, he'll most likely storm off to some museum or something to scrutinise the exhibits or something equally innocuous because those are exactly my plans as well, but with storefront windows. I want to blend into the crowd and deflect all attention, believe the cabbie to be the anomaly in all of this mess. I want to forget about the conference and everything else but finding a decent slice of pizza in this godforsaken place, and still in an irrationally angry state of mind, I silence my phone. The last thing I need is Ben calling me every five minutes after he decides I've been out too long.

"Riley," I mutter, "the scrapes you get yourself into."

And 'scrapes' is just putting it lightly. I just couldn't keep it together, not for Ben or the conference or even myself. I don't know what to do, and I can't tell if I'm waiting for someone to tell me, or if I'm on the verge of discovering something concrete to reaffirm my existence in life. I had no idea just how severely I'd isolated myself. The influx of emails only makes things that much more complicated, because who doesn't love the added challenge of a threat or two? Yeah, the email business started weeks ago, always the same kind of thing with the guy talking about the mine and the gold and some missing kid. I wouldn't be so disturbed over the onslaught if it weren't for the fact that I hadn't and still haven't been able to trace them to their source. Of course, I pinned them all the way to some place called Fred Meyer near Mount Hood and a gmail registered to Treasure Seeker, but other than that, nothing. I have no idea who the writer is. Yeah, I know he's an obsessive creep that puts a bit too much stock into Wikipedia rumours and conspiracy blogrolls. It was bad enough my agent had me leak the first few chapters on the strength of my name and all the associations it holds as an additional publicity effort. Maybe it worked just a little too well. The man always signs his emails as "A Fellow Treasure-Seeker." He always tries to appeal to that side of me, but he always has it wrong since I was never the seeker, just the follower. Ben had the master plans, and I just had the hand in the excitement – and by excitement, I mean the technical aspects.

Honestly, I hadn't been in it for the money. Half the time I thought I was about to die, and I would've in a heartbeat if it meant the safe passage of a few friends. I still would. But I don't know what to do in a scenario like this, when some guy behind a computer screen on the side of a goddamn mountain has targeted me for a stupid treasure hunt that may or may not involve a bucket. Things like this just aren't supposed to happen in real life, and obviously, I have no idea how I'm supposed to react. Ignoring the emails just encourages the creep to send more and more and who knows where it will end? I don't fancy having my own personal stalker. I don't fancy not being able to trace countless emails. I don't fancy having the rug seemingly yanked out from under me. It's not okay. And maybe that's the reason I brought Ben out here. Or one of them. At this point there are just too many to count.

Sighing angrily, I turn a street corner and stand next to the nearest westbound bus stop, abruptly exhausted by the short-lived walking and window-gazing mission. I don't necessarily have to get off at the hotel; hell, in truth I'm not even sure if this line will take me anywhere near the hotel. Twelve minutes later, I decide that it doesn't even matter. I'll just sit or stand and stare at the passengers and just breathe, and maybe when I make it back to the hotel, I won't be so flustered or whatever it is that I'm feeling right now. Maybe it's just a general sort of irrationality. I'm in pi mode or something. Brilliant. Now I've even given it a pet name.

I board the bus and pay the fare and make it all the way to the end of the line somewhere in some heavily forested place clearly outside of the city because it occurs that being lost like this isn't a good idea. In the end, Ben is usually right. He just has that uncanny ability about him, being able to sniff out the hinky things that I always chalk up to coincidences or something equally stupid. On my way back into the relatively familiar downtown, I pull out my phone to check the bus lines... only to discover a single message. Smirking at it I call my voicemail, listening quietly to the automated menu as the bus jerks along, shifting to accommodate the occasional bend in the two-lane road. It shudders to a halt at a deserted intersection just as the message finally begins to play:

"Riley. I met... I've met Treasure Seeker. You might want to... get back here. Check your email."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I'm not Disney. Sorry to disappoint.

_Notes: Thanks for all the feedback! It's a serious motivator for me, and I take every comment into consideration. Also, like I said before, we're into the "actiony" part now so I'm hoping the updates will be smoother and more frequent, but only time will tell. Sorry this is a bit short; the next one should begin to answer some of your questions - and Riley's as well. Thanks again, and please don't hesitate to drop a line!_

* * *

Now, I have Netflix. I've wasted countless hours watching discontinued crime dramas and movies since only the less popular ones are available for instant play. I'm also a treasure-hunter's sidekick by trade. People like me – normal people – aren't supposed to be experienced in kidnapping situations aside from remembering that one episode when x character was kidnapped by the bad guys and y character pulled some awesome heroic shit and saved the day. I can vaguely recall some possibly fictional advice about always informing the authorities even when the bad guys say not to. I remember the bits about asking for proof of life and all of that crazy shit I shouldn't ever have to consider under normal circumstances. But normally, some lunatic doesn't send you a cryptic email using your latest book release as a cipher. Normally, some lunatic doesn't tell you to get off at some bus stop in the middle of suburbia and inexplicably get into the nearest seedy van. ...Normally, some lunatic doesn't assume that it's your fault the bus is running four minutes late, and on account of that leave a voicemail that consists only of two crisp gunshots and the low groan of your best friend in the background. And normally, you aren't tasered from behind the instant your fingers brush the door handle of the aforementioned seedy van, which isn't actually a seedy van but an older pick-up with a capped bed and fading bumper stickers.

Normally, shit like this stays on the television screen.

Hardly daring to breathe, I listen, terrified, for anything other than the crunch and buzz of the tires or the rumbling of the other contents of the pick-up's bed. I can tell that it's dark and cool, my face pressed against the smelly, sticky fabric of an old blanket; hard round somethings press uncomfortably against my skin from beneath the blanket and I can't help thinking that I've been thrown into the back of some cannibal-mobile, and those things indirectly touching me are actually the teeth from his victims. My hands have been bound behind my back with what might be one of those annoying plastic zipper-ties, but it's a little hard to tell because I can barely feel my fingers anymore. This is _real_. This is _happening_. And it's taking everything in me not to hyperventilate: I am restrained and it's dark and I've essentially been kidnapped and Jesus Christ, but what the _fuck_. What the fuck is happening and why? I want to scream and cry and I can feel a panic attack coming on, wispy, gathering steadily like a storm in my chest and-

"Riley? Are you awake? Calm down, buddy. Breathe."

"B-Ben?" I stammer, voice several octaves too high and entirely too breathy. Spots keep popping in front of my eyes and I squirm awkwardly, gagging and shuddering and sweating. "B-B-Ben-"

"Riley-" His voice is coming from somewhere out of my line of sight, somewhere nearer to the cab. From the rattling of the hatch and the vibrations knocking my feet about, I assume our attacker simply shoved me in and slammed the door shut. God, but these observations are not helping my state of mind. "Riley, breathe out. C'mon buddy, breathe out for me. Riley-" He sounds strained, stressed, panicky, but not like me. Oh god but I can't see anything because the back window's been blacked out and isn't that fucking illegal? Isn't that illegal? Oh my god. We've been kidnapped.

I take in a ragged, wild breath of air, a hysterical screech in the enclosed space. I can hear Ben rustling, trying to crawl closer maybe, telling me to breathe out but I can't think anymore and the spots are so insistent and Jesus Christ but I can't feel my hands... I can't feel my hands and it's so... it's so dark-

"NO. That is not what I planned!"

Jerking awake, I flinch away from the light, coughing and shivering. A fine sheen of sweat coats my face and I want to brush the dampness away but my hands are still bound behind my back with that goddamn zip-tie. I blink, confused, but when I open my eyes I just want to shut them again in despair since we sure as hell aren't in Portland anymore. Mountains and barren, rolling hills rise up around us; from the looks of it, we're parked in a deserted rest stop off a distant two-lane highway, beside a white-water river. This couldn't be happening.

"NO!" shouted someone nearby, someone I don't recognise. Only his voice reaches us through the open hatch, as well as a rectangle of light from the cloudy afternoon. I shift my weight again, pulling myself sideways so I can lean my shoulders against the side of the bed. The hunched figure in the corner stirs, the white of his teeth suddenly appearing in the gloom and the light reflecting eerily in his half-shut eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asks quietly.

I balk a little. "The hell I'm all right," I whisper back, angry and panicked. "We're in the back of some lunatic's car, tied up and in the middle of _fucking_ nowhere heading who knows where!" My breaths are becoming wild again and Ben immediately scoots closer awkwardly, manoeuvring with his bound hands and feet as fulcrums until he's sitting next to me, leaning some of his weight against me. "Ben, I- I-I-I"

"Riley," he replies calmly. "You need to calm down. Breathe out. You'll hyperventilate again."

Ducking my head, I shut my eyes and try to concentrate, but predictably, it doesn't work very well since I can't breathe through my nose. My clothes are still damp from walking around downtown in the rain; the pick-up obviously doesn't have heating back here so the chill only adds to the overwhelming misery of the situation. If this is Treasure Seeker, what does he want with us? How did he get Ben? Spots explode again and I hold my breath although that only makes me dizzy and nauseous. At least the truck has stopped moving. But we're also waiting tensely for the man to appear and taunt us or something, or do whatever bad guys do, except that from the sound of his conversation, he doesn't strike me as being similar at all to Ian or Mitch, which probably isn't a good thing. Neither of them harassed their victims for months prior to taking them. And Ben...

"I'm sorry," I choke. "B-Ben I'm s-sorry. Y-You w-wouldn't be in th-this if I... if I hadn't-n't asked y-you to-"

He groans. "Riley, you are not apologising for this."

"I'm so s-sorry-"

"Riley! Trust me," he says forcefully, nudging me with his shoulder, "I'd rather be here than getting a phone call about your disappearance."

"That's s-sweet Ben, but this isn't-" The hysterical sarcasm abruptly halts as a shadowy figure appears in the rectangle of light. I can't see at all when I try to make out his face due to the brightness behind him – however, I have the distinct feeling that something is off or wrong. Or at least, more off and wrong than the average kidnapping scenario. The man grunts unintelligibly before slamming the hatch shut again and plunging us into darkness once more; he couldn't have stood there for more than a few seconds. I swallow the hard, fiery lump in my throat and lean my head back against the side of the cap. This was not how I imagined spending the rest of the afternoon. This isn't part of my bucket list and absurdly enough, I'm kind of outraged. But after the initial intense surge, the outrage just fades again to fear. If those emails are anything to go by... we are in so much trouble.

x

The next time I awake, Ben's head has flopped onto my shoulder and he's drooling a little according to the dampness seeping through my collar. Careful not to move, I glance at the closed hatch and listen hard for any movement outside, but it seems as though we've stopped again, just off the highway. An occasional car flies past and I shut my eyes, fruitlessly calling out to someone, anyone, for help. I have no idea how long we've been travelling or how much farther we have to go. I have no idea about anything, except for all those emails haunting me.

Treasure Seeker mentioned in every email how he wanted to "join our crew" and "investigate the possibility of treasure" in the deserts of eastern Oregon. I'd never replied. Maybe that was my mistake then – maybe I should have replied and expressed my disinterest. Ben would've done that, right? Oh, god but what should I have done? Should I address him now, try and strike up a deal or some rapport or be suave like all those other kidnapped people in the movies? Well, the ones that are confident of their safe return because they have people they can trust working to find them. Ben and I... Jesus Christ, but I can only hope that they don't tell Abigail until they can't avoid it any longer. Abby...

The truck's engine turns over grudgingly and we're moving again, back onto the highway with the other cars. I can hear a faint baseline seeping through from the cab, and maybe some faint singing. I'm glad our kidnapper is having a fun time, because I am having a blast. Being tasered and shut up in a dark, enclosed space really does it for me. I really enjoy seeing how many times I can have a panic attack in the span of a few hours. Unwilling to succumb to another one, I fidget just enough to begin the process of yanking my hand through the zip-tie. The plastic has been biting into my skin so I highly doubt I'll be able to squeeze out of it, but it's worth a try, and so I shut my eyes and wriggle my wrists and hands against the tight binding, ignoring the sharp pain. I know Ben keeps a pocketknife in his pocket, but the missing weight of my cell from my jacket pocket suggests that the man probably confiscated all the useful items when he chucked us in here. Just brilliant, he's watched CSI.

Ben groans softly and moves his head off my shoulder. There were still a few hours of daylight left when we were downtown, so it has to be approaching sunset by now. Maybe the guy would let us out then and tell us what he wants. Not that that would make it easier to sleep or anything, but I'd appreciate knowing instead of stewing back here, sick with nerves. We thunder over a bump in the road suddenly, and Ben's head comes crashing back onto my shoulder, triggering a violent flinch on my part. He mumbles something; I release a breath I didn't realise I've been holding, and, noticing that breathing through my nose meets no resistance, I take in a deep breath of the stale air – and shockingly, the unmistakable metallic tang of blood. With perfect clarity I recall those gunshots on my voicemail.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I'm not Disney. Sorry to disappoint.

_Notes: You guys are awesome! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! Also, sorry this took a little longer to update than planned. To be honest, I don't know how I feel about this chapter, but hopefully I can correct any doubts of mine with the next one. The bright side? SPRING BREAK! Woo! _

_Rascal: No one has been shot... yet :)_

_Autumnights: Sorry... yet another cliffhanger..._

_Again, if anything hasn't been cleared up, just drop a line! See you next chapter!_

_

* * *

_

I take a deep breath and hold it – or at least, I try. It's kind of hard to control your breathing when you're entering the first stages of hypothermia. As it stands, I can barely concentrate on anything but the cold and, somewhat fuzzily, our current predicament. Even when I was fully functional I couldn't really comprehend _this_, so I don't know what good it does to dwell on it... although, when the resident crazy has bound your hands, shot at you to deter another escape attempt, forced you to roast goddamn _marshmallows_ with him, and then left you to sleep beside the burnt-out fire with only a forty-degree sleeping bag, how _can't_ I dwell on it? How _can't_ I replay the ridiculous circumstances over and over again in my head?

The desert winds have died down a little, but it's still dark and unbearably cold and beyond creepy here, some deserted hellhole of packed dirt and gnarled trees that Treasure Seeker introduced grandly as our campsite. The sky is still clouded over so I can't see much more than the near vicinity, including the shadowy form of the pick-up and the black mounds of the packs by the base of a nearby tree. Not that I really want to see anything more. All I want to see is my warm bed and the nutjob holding us hostage locked away in a cell. I'm gonna take the liberty to assume that Ben would appreciate those sentiments as well, since I think he's still unconscious. At least he tried. Valiant effort, my good man. Jesus Christ I am freezing.

It's only been a few hours or so since Treasure Seeker shoved a suspicious-looking rag against Ben's nose and mouth, and proceeded to drag his body into the three-person tent pitched under the shelter of a few short pines. Three-person tent my ass. Maybe this exile is only temporary, as a punishment for trying to run, but he's already _shot_ at me- Isn't that punishment enough? I promise I won't be going anywhere anytime soon – I'd even told him as much. Obviously, that admission didn't get me very far, since the fruits of my labour consist entirely of being miserable, alone, and mildly hypothermic. There is nothing funny about this situation. I am going to die in this godforsaken place. I am going to die- But at least I'll die in my sleep, or something resembling sleep. Despite the cold, I can't help slipping in and out of a kind of daze, full of intense bouts of violent dreams. Maybe this is what dying is like in general. Surreal. And cold.

"He'll _die_ out there!" shouts someone hysterically. A brief scuffle follows, and mumbled words. Then: "I'm not doing _anything_ without him!" and the sounds of something tearing, more shouting, and heavy footsteps. Something warm and soft drapes across my shoulders and I flinch involuntarily; numb with cold, I turn to see Ben watching me worriedly, apparently horrified. "Oh my god, Riley. Oh my god. Are you- Oh my _god_."

Treasure Seeker's solid form looms nearby. "He's only a little cold- He's fine."

"A _little_ cold?" Ben rounds on him with startling ferocity. I want to tell him not to talk like that to the guy keeping us hostage, but my mouth won't work anymore and I'm so, so sleepy. The wind still chills me to the bone despite the added layer and Ben's body hunched protectively in front of me, and all I can think of is hot chocolate and sleep. "He's half-frozen! Look at him! It's below-freezing out here! And you expect me to help you when you-"

"Then you can stay out here with him," snaps the man in response. He storms back to the tent, returning a moment later with one of those mummy-like sleeping bags and a foil blanket of some kind. "You can stay out here too. But we're starting in the morning." A pause. "He tried to run."

Ben snatches up the gear. "Yeah?" he challenges. "Well he isn't running anywhere. This is uncalled for. This is _wrong_." His hand slaps my cheek, chafing the skin on either side of my face. "Hey, Riley. Kid, c'mon."

"G-guess we're... c-c-camp-ping under-der the-the s-st-stars th-then, huh?" I manage. I don't think my lips have ever been this numb in my life. Can't feel them at all. Funny, even with Ben out in the cold with me, I don't feel any safer. I want to tell him how to make a hypo pack, but everything's gone hazy and I can only think of how violently I'm shivering. Can't sleep now. Gotta stay awake for Ben.

Treasure Seeker coughs. "See you fellas in the morning." Footsteps, and a zipper.

"Oh god." Sighing in relief, he wraps the space blanket over my shoulders and zips both of us into a combination of the two sleeping bags. I have no idea how he manoeuvred himself into such a position, but I don't care as long as he stays close. "Jesus, you're ice-cold." He shakes his head, suddenly desperate. "I can't start a fire. We're just gonna have to wait it out."

"B-Ben, I-I d-don't w-want t-to d-die."

His voice squeaks a little. "Me neither, kid. Me neither. My god, Riley." Then his words drop into a whisper that I catch anyway, "Oh my god, what have I done? What have we done? Oh my god, Abby..." I can hear fidgeting. Fabric rustling on fabric. This goddamn wind won't die the fuck down. Is this what it's like in the desert? Why does Oregon even have a desert? All the postcards made me think it was lush and green and wet. This is just- This is... They _lied_ to me. It's utterly irrational, but someone, some they, _lied_ to me, and somehow that contributes to now. To freezing in the middle of a scrubby clearing in the middle of nowhere. Ben sounds like a whining dog. "Oh my god. Oh my god... Riley. Riley, you've gotta keep talking. C'mon, kid, keep talking. Say something. Jesus."

Thinking hard, I try to come up with a good question. It shouldn't be anywhere this difficult. Then again, kidnapping should be more difficult, so as to deter lunatics like Treasure Seeker from doing it. I blame television. I blame... "Wh-what d-did...?"

"Just talked," he says quickly. "He just talked about that mine and finding treasure. I'm so sorry I didn't realise sooner that you weren't in the tent. God, Riley, I- Keep talking, buddy. C'mon, kid."

A quick shake of my head, but it's more like an involuntary jerk to the side. "U-usually t-tell me to... sh-shut up."

He barks. "Riley. God, Riley. Are you feeling any warmer? Is this helping at all?"

"G-gotta pee."

He makes that barking noise again, probably meant to be a laugh. If I weren't freezing, I might have pointed out his sad attempt and made some stupid reference, but I'm totally blanking right now. My sense of time has been completely thrown off so I can't tell if a long time has passed since Treasure Seeker left us, or since my last words. Ben's still talking though, whispering into my hair with the tremors in his voice barely concealed; when I think about it, the way we're curled up is incredibly awkward. But he's warm, and the additional sleeping bag makes up a little for the hard, cold ground. If I can just pretend that this is a normal camping trip, I might be able to avoid another panic attack. Shaky breath. Ben chokes a little.

"-mumbling about a voicemail, but that was an accident because the gun just went off when it fell, and then he squeezed off another shot after he'd grabbed it and- and he actually pistol-whipped me. I didn't think real people did that, but he did and didn't do a very good job of it." He lets out another nervous bark but hurriedly, breathlessly picks up his thread again: "I don't know who this guy thinks he is but, but I swear to you Riley I'm gonna get us out of here. I will get us out of here. I am so sorry for all of this."

In my book, I should be the one apologising, not Ben. I'm the one who insisted he fly out here with me- I'm also the one to insist on going for a walk alone. And while I'm not entirely sure if that opened Ben up for attack or not, I'm fairly certain that if we'd been together, this whole kidnapping thing might not have happened; after all, Treasure Seeker doesn't appear to have an accomplice. God, I hope he doesn't have an accomplice. I twitch at the thought, suddenly feeling sick. It was bad enough, being trapped here with an obvious crazy, but... But... I don't know. I really just don't know. I am so completely drained emotionally from all of this: when we first got here and he ushered us out of the back, he made me sit on a charred log while Ben put up a tent we wouldn't get to use, and then forced us to listen to his animated chatter about treasure-hunting together and "sharing the wonders of nature" or some shit like that, and about how he'd brought marshmallows for s'mores. The crazy bastard actually had the audacity to bring ingredients for s'mores, and then force his captives to roast the marshmallows with him.

It probably wouldn't bother me so much if the guy actually seemed somewhat disturbed by our lack of enthusiasm, or reacted with threats of force... but no. He only chastised us and joked about how stubborn Ben could be, and told me to go on and have at it because the marshmallows wouldn't roast themselves, and didn't I love s'mores? Wasn't camping just so great, shared between a few friends? I'm glad I didn't meet this guy in kindergarten, or my concept of friendship might have been permanently skewed in the creepy direction. I just can't get over this. Any of this. He just left us here to... to, I don't know, await the morning and the rosy sunrise over the hills? How could I ever hope to make any sense of this? Assuming, of course, that we make it out alive... My god, but I'll be in therapy forever.

Ben jostles my shoulder with a lukewarm hand. "Hey. Riley, c'mon, say something. You're scaring me, buddy."

"'M so tired."

"I know, Riley, I know."

"C-can y-you un-t-tie m-me?"

"Oh, god." I can hear the way his expression has fallen into one of torment. Brilliant. "I can't Riley. I don't have anything... I can't untie you. But it's okay, just don't think about it. Just don't think about it, okay, Riley? We can get you out of-"

Shit. Panic. Before I can think, the words have tumbled out of my mouth: "Y-you're- He c-cut-" And then the mindless flailing, the desperate attempts to escape the entanglement of our bodies and sleeping bags and zip-ties. My hands _are still bound_ – he never released me, and when I tried to run, he shot the ground at my feet and singed my shoes- I felt the shock as the bullet impacted the ground. And who knows just how many bullets this lunatic has stashed, because he may be down three, but I refuse to consider the idea that maybe he conveniently forgot to pack the ammo, since he sure as hell didn't forget the gun, tent, and heavy daypacks full of god knows what. And Ben won't untie me. Ben. Won't. Untie. Me.

"Riley, calm down!" he hisses, clinging tightly to my chest. "Calm down! It's okay!"

But the cold air burns my throat and lungs, making breathing even more difficult and I'm starting to believe that I'm suffocating. He usually can assuage the panic from whatever minor scrape we've gotten ourselves into, but this isn't exactly minor. His hands are free. Mine aren't. He and I both know I can't be restrained. My breath catches in my chest whenever I so much as twitch, and it takes everything in me not to break down and just drown in the despair clouding my chest. I've been trying desperately to hold off on drawing any sort of conclusion just to stave off that despair, but at this point, there's nothing for it – the man's bloody mad. We are being kept by a madman in the Oregon wilderness all because of some stupid treasure and I am going to die. I am going to die. Jesus Christ. I am going to die-

"Riley, _please_. You don't want him to come back!"

Violently shaking my head, I huddle against Ben, still gasping pitifully. "N-no, n-no, I..."

Ben presses his mouth against the back of my head and I can almost imagine the pained expression, the way his eyes have shut and the brows have drawn together. Is he giving into despair too? Is this it? "Riley," he breathes. "Riley, I will get us out of this. You just have to trust me. Please. Trust me."

Trust him. I think back to earlier, when we watched Treasure Seeker eat dinner and when we had to roast marshmallows, my thoughts in a jumble. Before he dragged Ben off- Treasure Seeker, bundled up in a warm winter jacket and with what looks like comfy flannel peeping out of his collar, talking to us animatedly while he ate out of a can of beans. "-can start in the morning and it's great you could make it because it will be worth it, I know it. I just have this feeling, you know? Just a feeling that we're gonna hit paydirt," he'd mumbled, not making eye contact as usual.

I remember spending the past hour or so watching him, and the only time he spared me a glance was when Ben finally returned with the water. I remember unloading the daypacks and noticing how they were packed for a multi-day expedition into the wilderness... with the people this crazy kidnapped but is pretending came of their own volition. I still want to believe this is all just some stupid game and that in the morning this guy will come down off of whatever he's ingested and apologise and take us back to the city, but I, too, "just have a feeling" and it isn't a good one. Ben's already been scared into submission, and I guess I have too by proxy. He'd been so reluctant to disobey Treasure Seeker-

"We're gonna hit paydirt, y'know?" he'd repeated suddenly. Thinking back on it only emphasises the absurdity of the situation and how I'm so scared all of the time that it's just glossing over into the realm of the utterly surreal, hypothermia aside; I could burst out laughing at any point. Of course, I'm fully and unwillingly aware that laughing in our captor's presence will probably result in my immediate death, but I don't think I'm responsible for my actions anymore.

Then Treasure Seeker stood clumsily, unsteadily, and lurched over to pour the remainder of his can onto the fire, coughing and spluttering. I distinctly recall his silhouette and thinking how he's about Ben's age but much more muscular and stocky, which is probably how he managed to drag us into the back of his truck without an accomplice. He'd moved towards the tent, a shuffling lumber, and disappeared for a moment before returning and making a huge show of stretching. "Well, boys, what'ya say about calling it a night and gettin' a fresh start in the morning?"

Neither of us replied until Ben said something about it being cold and how neither of us was dressed for the desert night. I'd accidentally said something inflammatory about being bound. And Treasure Seeker vanished into the darkness before charging out of the shadows to tackle Ben, pressing the damp cloth to his face until he went limp- It was like watching a scene straight from any horror movie. He zippered the tent shut after them. A flashlight had flickered on and flashed out through the fabric, catching me in the eyes, and I'd blinked and turned away with my chest suddenly heaving like a frightened rabbit's. And then came the cold. But before he'd left me, Ben had whispered, "We can't run. I don't know his game yet. But I promise you, I will get us out of this. Trust me."

_Trust me_. I stare out at our forlorn surroundings, disbelieving of his words. I want to tell him he's insane. Hell, by this time, my skin has become so desensitised to the feeling of the zip-tie so that I'm almost used to being bound up like this – but I don't enjoy it, and it's taken a considerable amount of self-control and faith in the man beside me not to give in to the panic. I want to cause a major outburst, but at the same time, I don't want Treasure Seeker to come back and actually shoot me this time. I don't want to die out here. I don't want to die. It seems so stupid, everything that's led us to this point. It seems so distant, the self-pity and neediness induced by my self-isolation.

"Riley," he repeats slowly. "Riley, I just need you to trust me. Trust me one last time."

And I do. Despite everything in my screaming the contrary, despite the unbearable cold of the open desert plain and the sad gnarled trees and our impossible predicament, I can't help but believe the man who's saved us from so many other incidents. But what exactly does he mean by "one last time"?


End file.
